En route from a small village called Casoli, tucked away in the bosom of the Tuscan mountains, I walk along a path amongst the steep ridges to a vantage point once used by earls to sentry invading armies spawning from the sea — A village within the olive orchards called Metato.
As I approach a clearing in this trail of antiquity I climb up a precipitous boulder — careful of my footing, I orchestrate the grips of my hands and my feet to ascend the stairs of nature’s temple. It is here — a vista that commands all of your humility and fills all of your soul. A view that opens you to new depths, as if to open your lungs to a new fullness of breath — as if with every breath, life was made anew.
It is here, in this space, that time does not exist. The sun kisses the entirety of your body as a breeze cooled by the sea dances around you in a playful pas de deux.
As I sit atop this rock — as I stand still in time — The breath of nature’s wind blows through the vocal chords of the rustling leaves on the tree line singing earth’s song. It is a beautiful vocalise of long crescendoing and evanescing lyrical phrases. A composition only known by God, but only fully appreciated by those who choose to listen.
As I rest my weary body, I take a bite of the focaccia bread kept in my pocket. I realize it is not the sustenance of this that restores my strength, but it is the daily bread of beauty that feeds the soul and gives life it’s vitality. He must be an artist — for nature is beauty, and beauty is God.